Page 26 of A Miracle on Hope Street
I’m not exactly off to a great start am I? Maybe this dinner wasn’t such a good idea after all.
Chapter Twelve
I just about make it through the front door to the safety of my own home without breaking down, having held back tears as I walked from the café back through the damp, dark streets, and now that I’m in the freedom of my own space I just let it all out and scream the loudest, deepest screech I can find from the depths of my lungs which makes me feel a million times better already.
‘Why am I so bloody alone?!’ I shout to the stairs in front of me. ‘Why is it that trying to do something good for people is already looking so damn difficult?’
But I will not let this rejection set me back. I refuse to let it. I’ve met enough ‘Michaels’ in this world who have tried to pull me down and knock my confidence but it’s not going to happen on this occasion.
In fact, he has actually done me a favour and he probably doesn’t realise it. I will do this by myself and Michael with his ‘pretend I don’t exist’ attitude has shown me that I don’t need anyone to push me along. I may feel alone but I will do this by myself.
With a new-found energy I march towards the kitchen and I open cupboards, pulling out ingredients one by one – pasta sheets, tins of tomatoes, mushrooms, carrots, celery, oregano, nutmeg, garlic, then cheese, milk, butter and minced meat from the fridge and before long the waft of my mother’s recipe for lasagne fills the house and warms my heart and I don’t feel so alone any more.
For a moment I am back with her, feeling her encouragement and her breath on my back, guiding me through the hardest of times that I’ve had to face since she left us. I look at her short letter, her plea to meet with me soon and I tell myself that I’m getting stronger. I’m feeling her near and I’ll soon have the courage and belief in myself to come face to face with her once more and try to forgive her for all these empty lost years.
I sit down at the kitchen table, wearing her old tomato-sauce-splattered apron and realise that if I had one Christmas wish, it would be for that to happen. If I had one Christmas wish I’d make it so that we could be reunited at last and that all the years of feeling so lost, without just knowing that she still wanted to be part of my life, could in time disintegrate as we built on some sort of understanding and forgiveness.
If I had one Christmas wish, I’d wish for my mother. I know it’s up to me to make the next move. I just don’t know if I can do it yet. Maybe I need to host this dinner first and keep building on myself, just like Nora and Gloria said. I’m taking baby steps now, though. I can really feel it getting closer. I can feel it getting real.
I pour a glass of red wine and swirl it in the glass, letting the aroma fill my senses and feel the bubbles of excitement rush through my veins again. You better believe I will do this all by myself if I have to. I’ve had enough of feeling sorry for myself and Michael’s refusal to come on board will not interfere with any of this.
I go to the drawing room and put my laptop on my knee and I’m just about to begin searching through my emails to select my potential guests from those who have written to me lately when the doorbell rings. My doorbell never rings these days unless it’s the postman and that familiar sense of anticipation and fear fills my whole being as I make my way to the door. I hope it’s not bad news. I always think that someday I’ll be delivered bad news about my mother and a kick in the face of reality that I’ve left it too late to welcome her home again.
Please, please don’t let it be bad news . . .
The whirr of the traffic outside fills the hallway as I open the door to Michael, who flashes me a sheepish smile and an apologetic hello.
‘Michael?’ I say, totally puzzled.
I wonder if I’ve forgotten something from earlier, like my phone or my purse or if he has a message from Gloria that can’t wait?
He wears a heavy black overcoat and jeans and without the baseball cap he is barely recognisable. His dark hair glistens under the falling rain and I can see his brown eyes so clearly now.
‘I was rude to you earlier and I’m sorry,’ he says, his hands in his pockets and his head bowed in shelter from the wintry weather. ‘I’ve come here to apologise for being such an asshole. There, I said it. I was an asshole and I’m sorry.’
I fold my arms like a bossy schoolgirl who knows she is right and look down on him from the height of the doorstep.
‘Apology accepted,’ I say to him. ‘You really upset me at the time but I’m over it now. Thanks for coming by to say sorry. That’s very—’
‘If you still need any help you can count me in,’ he says, looking at the ground as he taps his feet against the doorstep in what I assume is some sort of nervous reaction.
‘Oh? I wasn’t expecting you to change your mind,’ I say, puzzled. A gust of cold air rushes past me into the hallway. ‘Come in. It’s too cold to talk outside.’
I pull back the yellow door and he shuffles past me into the narrow hallway, his eyes taking in the museum-like surroundings that depict practically my entire family life on the walls. Baby photos, weddings, christenings, birthdays – the lot are up there, watching down on us, smiling and frozen in time, oblivious of what was around the corner when it all ended so abruptly and a new life in this house began.
‘I’ll take your coat,’ I say to him and I help him out of the damp, woollen long jacket that weighs so heavily when I go to hang it up.
‘Big house,’ he says, looking up at the tall ceilings and towards the staircase with its dark mahogany railings that run along the right-hand side of the hallway, standing still and afraid to change, just like we have done here for so long, watching and waiting for her to return.
‘Big, cold,quiethouse that I plan to get rid of in the new year,’ I say to him, putting my hands in the pockets of my dress and following his gaze. He is wearing a pale blue round neck jumper. He looks fresh and healthy and even though I could scream at him for treating me so badly earlier, there’s something about Michael that makes me go soft, no matter how hard I try to be tough with him now.
‘Are you hungry? I’ve made some lasagne?’ I ask him.
‘I had dinner before I left,’ he tells me apologetically. ‘Thanks anyway, but Gloria insists that I eat after every shift in case I die of starvation before I get back to her the following day. She’s fussy like that, but thank you so much. You’re kind to offer.’
We share a smile momentarily, like two kids who have been forced to shake hands and make up after a playground fight.
‘Can I ask you something, Michael?’
